by Linda Welch
The road took me past Graymist. The parking area behind a row of aspen was nearly full. They must be hosting a function as the old restaurant is seldom busy in winter. The rambling white clapboard building hums in summer when patrons enjoy dining out on the decks which jut over the river. The canyon wall towered behind it, so high I couldn’t see the rim unless I leaned forward and took my eyes off the road, which I was not about to do.
Past the restaurant, the canyon closed in as I approached the mile-long Narrows with nothing between me and the river but a low, eroded stone wall which had collapsed in places. The County was working on it and had erected barricades at the gaps, but they would not stop a speeding vehicle busting through.
The pickup was right up my rear now. Likely some young ace short on intelligence, thought nothing could touch him, not even the laws of gravity. The pickup had huge tires, jacked-up suspension, a row of lights above the windshield and a cage over the grill. It looked like a demolition derby candidate. The windows were tinted too dark to be legal. I couldn’t see the driver.
I concentrated on the road.
The impact seemed to suck me back in my seat then throw me forward. The seatbelt clamped my chest, the steering wheel spun through my hands. My sunglasses slipped off my nose and dangled from one ear. The tires juddered along rather than rolled as my car headed for one of those ineffectively barricaded gaps. With the smell of burning rubber coming through the air vents, I grabbed the steering wheel and forced it left. For a moment I seemed to be hung up on something, then my girl busted free and we spun back across our lane. I jerked the steering wheel right and mashed the accelerator pedal to the floor. All in a matter of seconds during which my mind stopped working and instinct took over.
It was no accident. The pickup rammed me, tried to push me through the break in the wall. I’d have gone straight in the furiously churning river.
I ripped off my sunglasses, threw them on the passenger seat and glanced in the rearview mirror. The monster had fallen back but came in again now, outsized tires churning slush, throwing it up in sheets. So close it loomed over me, the massive grill filled my rear window.
Holy Mother, he was coming after me. What is wrong with you? Did he see me wave at thin air and think I gave him the finger? Some motorists are quick to take offense and road rage has terrible consequences.
Praying the impact did not damage anything vital and thankful the County did an excellent job keeping the road clear of snow and ice, I kept my foot down. The Xterra shot away, putting feet then yards between me and the pickup. I resisted the impulse to keep my eyes on the mirror and concentrated on the winding road, watching for stray ice slicks.
I’ve told people I can drive the canyon with my eyes closed. As I entered the Narrows, where the river goes underground and the rock walls loom inches from the road, I knew the inanity of that statement. Fast as I drove, I wonder my car didn’t take those bends on two wheels. I became terrifyingly aware of how the rock bulges a few feet above the road in some places, how sharp the bends are.
My fairy godmother must have waved her magic wand. A big double-bed gravel truck inched around the second bend, taking it wide, covering its lane and a quarter of mine. I curse those big trucks, the canyon road is steep and too narrow for them, more so in the Narrows where rock juts about eight feet above the road in some spots. This time I was glad to see one of the behemoths. The pickup was wider than my Xterra; it had to fall back and let the truck through.
Hugging the canyon wall, I came abreast of the big truck.
I dare not look up, but I bet the driver had a fit. The gray steel side whipped past inches from my left side mirror. I didn’t intend to drift to the right, it was an involuntary reflex - a crack as my right side mirror scraped the wall and snapped off. My knuckles were white as I tried to keep the Xterra from bouncing off either the truck or the rock face.
My knowledge of the road and faith in my vehicle got me through the Narrows. I popped out the other end like a cork out a bottle. I picked up speed on the flat. Fifty-five. Sixty.
I shot through a wider stretch of the canyon where anglers liked to park on the twenty feet of snow-covered dirt on my right during summer. I checked my mirror as I neared Elk Lodge, its steeply pitched, snow-covered roofs and deep eaves peeking through a stand of pine. Could I turn down the road which runs beside the big log structure and whip into the rear parking lot? No. The pickup driver would see me if he came out the Narrows in the next few seconds and I would be trapped. Would he come after me in a public place? I daren’t risk it. I needed more distance from him.
I checked my mirrors yet again. The pickup nosed around the bend a quarter mile behind me. Sweat stung my eyes.
Ahead, the canyon zigzagged for a quarter mile before it became Thirteenth, a straight, smooth road to downtown Clarion, where the pickup driver would have an unimpeded view of me and where I went. But if I could take either the north or south exit before Thirteenth out of sight of my pursuer, he would not know whether I left the road or went onward, until he got on Thirteenth and didn’t see me ahead.
I slalomed around the next bend, hit my brakes and slued crazily onto Ridgemont, a poorly paved road which winds between two sandstone buttes. I took the first right off Ridgemont, a left to Pine Crest Lane.
Then I was among pine, aspen and wood-framed homes. I pulled into a dirt road shielded from Pine Crest by a thick mat of pine and scrub oak and cut the engine. Forehead on the steering wheel, I felt I could breathe properly for the first time since leaving Janie’s. I clenched my hands on my knees to still the trembling.
Someone tried to kill me.
I should call Clarion PD, but they’d want me to go down there and fill out a report and I couldn’t blow my chance to get into Bel-Athaer with Gia.
God only knew who tried to run me off the road. I surely didn’t. Maybe it wasn’t a matter of road rage and the assassins were after me again. The notion made my stomach turn over.
I’d planned to go home and get a cab to downtown. I told Wanda I’d be out of town for a few days and asked her to get my mail and papers in. She already had my key. My bag was already in the car. I timed it so I’d go from the garage to the cab, and not have to go back in the house and another haranguing from Jack and Mel. I’d taken care of everything.
But the black pickup might be waiting for me if I went home now.
I hooked my cell from my back pocket and called Ted Crossley.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Calling in favors can be an asset when you are a private investigator. Clarion does not have any long-term parking garages, but Ted would punch a new twenty-four hour ticket for me each morning he came on duty and saw my Xterra in The Bancroft’s parking garage. He directed me to a corner spot on level three.
“Thanks, Ted. I appreciate it.”
He waved me through. “No prob, Tiff.”
Bless him for not asking why I wanted to leave my car here.
Ted’s mom Jean died three years ago. The autopsy ruled accidental death when her car went off the road as it crested Gallaway Peak. Ted didn’t believe it. His mom was a careful driver who in her time had driven all over the world and never got a ticket or been involved in an auto accident. Ted suspected her husband of two months and half her age arranged her murder. He never liked nor approved of Peter. His mom invested a bundle in new hubby’s fledgling company, but Peter’s dream became a nightmare when his venture flopped and Jean refused to give him another penny. Ted figured Peter wanted Jean’s money, which he would inherit if she died before him. But Jean’s car wasn’t tampered with, drugs or alcohol were not found in her system and the medical examiner found no health-related cause of death. And Peter had an alibi.
The simplicity of Peter’s plan awed me. He knew where Jean headed that morning. He drove to Gallaway before her and waited. Jean drove along Route 21, as always keeping to the speed limit, but too fast to stop when Peter jumped in the road in front of her, too fast to avoid killing the man she loved,
unless she swerved off the road and over an eight-hundred foot drop. His alibi? His business partner cracked when Mike Warren started in on him.
I found out later he set up a champagne breakfast in a pretty little grove off the road. If she managed to stop, he would say, “Surprise!” and she’d respond, “Peter! You nearly scared me to death!”
I wish she hit the bastard. Then his shade would be lingering on Gallaway.
Jean spent her days and night sitting under the trees, or following the path her car took, down to the crash site, up to the road. “It was lovely last spring,” she told me. “I didn’t know so many wild flowers grew on the mountainside here.”
I talked Mike into dragging Peter up there. It was one of those rare times Mike was in a good mood so humored me. He already had Peter’s written confession after his partner fingered him, so I don’t know what reason he gave to have Peter revisit the scene. I was too busy watching poor Jean to care. She didn’t believe Peter deliberately ran her off the road till then. Peter didn’t know he confessed to his wife as he corroborated where he hid as she drove toward him, whereabouts on the road he ran in front of the car. He didn’t see her as she stood before him, wringing her hands in distress.
In the dim parking garage, still sick inside, I scooted my butt out the Xterra and checked her over. The left side from rear door to rear lights had buckled, pulling the roof down at a drunken angle. The left rear fender was pushed into the wheel well. And no side mirror. It could have been worse. I could be in the Snake River.
With no idea what to tell my insurance agent, I decided to think about it later.
My breath caught in my throat when a car climbed the ramp from the second level, but it was a Honda heading for level four. I took my backpack from the passenger seat, locked the Xterra and took the concrete stairwell down to the street.
I glanced over my shoulder on and off as I walked to Montague Square, but no sign of a jacked-up pickup with dark windows.
Cold nipped my nose and my boots left icy footprints in new snow as I trudged along, hands deep in my pockets. My Ruger in the angle-draw holster snugged my side. The backpack containing a few essentials shifted between my shoulder blades. A change of socks and underwear, a lightweight hoodie, toothbrush and toothpaste, hairbrush, and travel size deodorant, body wash and shampoo. Our cases often took me and Royal out of town so I always had plenty travel size personal hygiene minis on hand. I also packed my Derringer, a flashlight and lock picks. And I had Lawrence’s note. I had been through two home invasions, one when demons trashed the place, again when assassins planted an explosive device - maybe I was paranoid, but I worried about whoever was after me this time breaking in and getting their hands on Lawrence’s plea for help. Paranoia is not always a bad thing.
Temperatures had dropped below-freezing overnight, but recalling the heat in Bel-Athaer I did not bundle up. The chill penetrated my sleeves and I wished I had my insulated hat with flaps which cover the sides of my face. My cheeks felt cold and chapped.
Gia leaned back on the saddle of a bullet bike, glossy black hair pulled into a tail at her nape. The maroon leather fitted-jacket and pants molded to show her graceful curves. The maroon, thigh-high, flat-heeled leather boots clung to her shins like a second skin. The color matched her bike. She looked stunning, damn her.
I paused on the sidewalk, staring. I sensed an oddness, a wrongness, when I met Gia and Daven Clare. When I heard their name, Dark Cousin, I concluded they were another type of Gelpha, demons who didn’t glitter, and persisted in the belief until I read Gorge’s book. Now, I tried to detect anything abnormal in Gia’s appearance, anything alien, as if now I knew, I should perceive a difference. But she was the same as ever. Attractive, but not beautiful. An awesome figure, lovely hair, and eyelashes which could sweep crumbs off a table. And if I were a guy, I bet her mouth would work like a suction cup.
“Are you coming, Miss Banks?”
Swinging a helmet with an opaque visor by the strap, she watched me approach. Another helmet rested on the bike’s saddle. You bring two helmets for a reason.
“We’re riding that thing?” I hate bullet bikes. Too many died in Pineview Canyon as a result of collisions involving bullet bikes.
She smiled, a cat lapping cream.
About to ask why we didn’t use what I fondly call the demon dash, I changed my mind. Dark Cousins can move as fast as Gelpha, but I would have to cling to her. And perhaps dashing through Bel-Athaer, where demons do not normally dash, would attract attention as well as risk colliding with other speeding demons. Who knew?
By the way, when I say “fondly,” it is sarcasm. Having my insides churned to mush is not my idea of a good time, nor is fighting to not throw up afterward.
I grimaced as my gaze ran over the gleaming machine. I would have to angle my body along her back. I hate bullet bikes.
She tried to pass me the helmet. I shook my head. “I don’t use helmets, they restrict the vision.”
“They are also an excellent disguise.”
She had something there. I took the helmet. “I think someone tried to kill me.”
“Think?”
Her expression became pensive as I told her about the pickup.
She ran her fingertip along her lower lip. “I wonder … could it have to do with our little venture?”
“It came to mind.” I swung the helmet back and forth. “But Royal and I put a few people behind bars. They’re still there as far as I know, some on death row, but they have friends and family.”
She took up her helmet and placed it on her head. “We should go, quickly.”
I felt dampness on my cheek. Tiny flakes drifted down from the cloud-laden sky, tiny flakes which would settle and build up on the frozen ground. The sidewalk was already treacherous. The roads were a mess of slippery sludge where the plows laid down a mixture of salt and sand on packed snow and ice.
I had so many misgivings about this adventure, so I determinedly strode to the bike before I could change my mind.
A familiar rumble made me glance along the street as I lifted the helmet to my head. You cannot mistake a Harley and by the sound, it went way too fast for the slick roads.
The rumble increased to a ground-shaking roar I felt in my teeth as Chris Plowman turned the corner and hurtled down the street on a big old Harley Shovelhead. Wearing mirrored shades, shimmering gray hair a stream of liquid mercury threaded with glittering black, he was, I admit, a truly delicious specimen of manhood and the few woman abroad obviously agreed. Heads turned and mouths widened in appreciative grins. The Harley logo decorated the heel and side of his black riding boots. Skintight black leather pants clung to his thighs, the black leather jacket hung open over a light-gray T-shirt and momentum pressed a silver crucifix to his chest. He looked wild, dangerous and utterly masculine.
He pulled up and kicked the stand down. The bike tilted to one side, the crucifix swung on its long chain and his hair settled over his shoulders. I will not pretend I didn’t experience a pleasant squirm as his thigh muscles tightened to bear the weight of the big machine.
In his expensive suits, I had not noticed the width of his shoulders, his slender waist and tapering hips, the muscular thighs. And tight as those pants were, they left little to the imagination.
Oh my.
What does it say about me that on the brink of waltzing into alien territory to find my man, I ogled another? Hey, a gal can look, and sometimes her body totally ignores her brain as it yells, down girl.
“There you are, ladies,” he drawled smugly. He turned his face up. “Lovely day for a ride.”
I eyed the bike appraisingly. Matte black, in pristine condition, care had been lavished on the machine. “Eighty-three?”
If I had imagined Chris Plowman on a bike, it would be a new custom job, not an old bone-rattler. Shovelheads are ornery beasts. They leak oil and something is always going wrong with them. Did he know that, or buy it purely for the macho image? Still, he would have someone e
lse work on the thing; I couldn’t see him tinkering with it.
Mind you, I never imagined him in anything other than a tailored suit.
He fondled the high handlebars with long, smooth strokes, eyes twinkling as a pleased smile curved his lips. Snowflakes settled on his hair and melted, glittering like diamonds before they evaporated. “You know your Harleys.”
Watching the caressing motion of his hands, a blush climbed my throat.
“What do you want?” Gia’s voice out-chilled the low temperature by several degrees. “You are conspicuous.”
I agreed. Exotically handsome, in clothing more suitable for summer cruising, he stood out. I was poorly clad for the climate in my white cambric shirt, stone-washed jeans and brown lace-up boots, but I also wore a thick fleece vest which I’d stow in my backpack when we arrived in Bel-Athaer.
Chris sounded surprised by Gia’s question. “I’m coming with you.” He placed his palm on his chest as he turned his gaze to me and declared dramatically, “I swear, fair maiden, I will protect you with my life.”
I tweaked up one eyebrow. “Huh. Go back to your fancy hotel in Boston, Plowman. I don’t need your protection.”
Gia tilted her head to one side, eyeing him with consideration. “No. Let him come, he could be of use.”
I couldn’t imagine how, except to get in our way, but I had agreed to follow her lead. However, I was not pleased.
Chris, on the other hand, couldn’t have been happier. He beamed at me, managing to look superior at the same time.
“We will keep a low profile, blend in.” Gia’s eyes drifted over him appraisingly. “If you can manage it.”
“You wound me, my Lady,” he replied, trying to appear offended but not succeeding. His expression seemed to permanently be one of droll amusement. “I have just the thing.” He pulled a blue and beige bandana from inside his jacket, folded it and tied it around his head. The bandana hid most of his amazing hair but did nothing to disguise the rest of him.